Keeper of the Moon - By Harley Jane Kozak Page 0,85

Stepanovich was quite excited to see it. He’d heard rumors of others being found recently.”

“But, Justine,” Sailor said, “you didn’t say any of this in the Council meeting.”

Justine looked startled. “Give information to Charles Highsmith? I wouldn’t give that man a French fry if I owned a potato plantation.”

“And what about Sailor?” Alessande said heatedly. “She has the disease.”

“Exactly so,” Justine said. “Which was why I phoned her immediately after the meeting. She ran out so quickly that day. I wanted to tell her she was in no danger.”

“The pathogen,” Catrienne said, addressing Sailor, “will leave your system within the week. It was true for the Elven, as well, according to the old texts. If they avoided cutting themselves and bleeding, they survived.” She turned to Sailor. “There were also Keepers infected in the past centuries, but for them it was mild, as it is for you now, and never life-threatening.”

“That’s a relief,” Sailor said. “Thank you.”

“But at moonrise,” Alessande said, “there will be a hostage-taking. Unless we can find the killer.”

“We cannot help you,” Catrienne said.

“Then we’ll be on our way,” Sailor said. “I’m sorry to be abrupt, but we’re in a hurry. Thank you for your help,” she added, although she was far from sure what help they’d actually been given.

She and Alessande were soon navigating their way back—apparently the return trip didn’t merit a guide—and Sailor said, “What was the point of that exercise, do you suppose? Not a lot of useful information. I mean, it’s nice to know that I’m going to fully recover, but—”

Catrienne appeared on the path in front of them, startling them both.

“I’ll walk with you,” she said, her voice low. “I did see him. The shifter posing as Stepanovich. He was a young man, one I knew. A breugair.” Her tone dripped contempt.

“A shifter for hire,” Alessande explained.

“I’ve seen him at work before,” Catrienne said.

“What’s his name?” Sailor asked.

Catrienne looked at her—through her—with her gray-glass eyes. “A name? A man who can change his face for a price has many names. I don’t know his name.”

“Who has he worked for, then?” Sailor asked.

“Too many to count. Weres, pixies, vampires. Mortals. A man who owns Century City.”

Sailor looked at Alessande in surprise. Someone owned Century City?

“So he was here at someone’s behest,” Alessande said. “But without a name, how—”

“I followed him all the way to the road, to his auto. It was a black BMW.”

Sailor said, “Only a few hundred thousand of those in L.A.”

“With license number 1NJC488?”

Sailor stopped, staring at her.

“I won’t have Justine knowing this,” Catrienne said, returning her stare. “I don’t want her playing detective.”

“So you kept it to yourself,” Alessande said, “for weeks? Sticking your head in the sand, and hers, too, and she’s a Keeper.”

“She is seventy-five years old. How long do I have her for? Another twenty years, if I’m lucky? Her life cycle is short. Hunting killers is a young person’s game, not hers, and not mine, either. I am a healer.”

“But she could at least have taken it to the Council,” Sailor said.

Catrienne laughed. “Your Council? And whom do you suppose the breugair has worked for in the past? Your own Charles Highsmith.”

Sailor was stunned.

“You could have told someone,” Alessande said, bitterness in her voice.

“I am telling you.” Catrienne turned and walked away.

* * *

Sailor and Alessande continued hiking as fast as possible. Alessande had no trouble seeing the path they’d taken a half hour earlier and trampled the underbrush with great energy, seething with indignation. “Catrienne and her secrets. But for Justine to agree to tell no one, even what little she knew? She’s been around Catrienne too long. A more antisocial creature I never want to meet.”

Sailor dialed Brodie and relayed the license plate number, not bothering with encryption, because she couldn’t remember how to do it.

“Can I ask what this is about?” he said.

“No,” she said. “Not until I see you. But call me back as soon as you get something. All I need is a name.”

She hung up and turned to Alessande. “Speaking of shifters, the man in your cabin on Wednesday when I regained consciousness—his name wasn’t Vernon, and he wasn’t a stockbroker. He—or she—was a shifter. Did you know? You must have known.”

“I knew,” Alessande said.

“Who was it?”

Alessande shook her head. “It’s nothing to do with this.”

“Can’t you just—”

“No, because I said I wouldn’t. Every vow we break weakens us. Every promise.”

“My God, you Elven are annoying,” Sailor said. “The secrets. The vows of silence. It’s like the Mafia.”